


Split Hairs - Part 1- The Beginning of the End

by shuns



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And loads of snark, BTBFFN Restricted Section Contest, By hunting a serial killer, F/M, Forbidden Love, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, How does Hermione deal with a break up, Polyjuice Abuse, Rebound Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 05:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuns/pseuds/shuns
Summary: With the help of certain Slytherin who has an unnatural fascination with pointy objects, Hermione Granger is tracking down Antonin Dolohov; his curse is killing her, literally. She plans on serving him some ice-cold revenge if she doesn't murder Blaise first.Either way, someone is going to die, she doesn't care who, no need toSplit Hairs.





	Split Hairs - Part 1- The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [BeyondTheBook_FFNook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondTheBook_FFNook/pseuds/BeyondTheBook_FFNook) in the [Restricted_Section_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Restricted_Section_2019) collection. 



> NOTE: This is tagged as Rape/Non-Con out of an abundance of caution for reader's triggers. There are allusions to rape occurring and coerced consent, but there are no graphic depictions of rape in this fic.
> 
> Thousands of blessings on my beta, [HeartSandwich,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartSandwich/pseuds/HeartSandwich) and alpha, [Lunalunemoon.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunalunemoon/pseuds/lunalunemoon) Thank you so much for indulging me when I throw words at you and desperately ask you to read and tell me what you think. You are the best ladies to read with, comment to and write for.
> 
> Disclaimer: the recognizable characters in this story do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.Rowling and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. A/N: And if I did own them that Epilogue would be the first thing to go.
> 
>  **Prompt:** He/she knew this was only a spell but the damage was done; he had fallen in love.

Police Principal-Agent Milos Georgescu watched the old woman across from him twist the handkerchief in her hands. She wore a black shirt and skirt, but her kerchief was a riot of color as if to make up for the hairs on her chin and missing teeth. He was a busy man and had no time to rub mint with old women from the Romanian countryside, though she looked exactly like the _Joimarita,_ his Bunica spun stories about to scare him when he was a little boy. His desk was a mess, but today was Wednesday. If she was a hoanghină, he was in the clear. Had it been a Thursday though, he made the sign against Devil behind his back, just in case. “And the last time you heard from her was two weeks ago?”

“Yes, we live outside town in Drăguș Commune. We waited a few days, and it took time to get here on the cart-” The woman caught his raised brow, he knew what most country girls did when they came to Braşov. She wagged her finger at him, the chair protesting as she shifted her bulk forward. “My granddaughter, she’s a good girl, she doesn’t go with boys. She came into town for work, _honest work_. I know something terrible has happened to her. She calls me, but her face is wrong. And her voice too.” She clawed at her chest and let loose a loud wail. His office was too small and cramped for her dramatics. 

But old women knew things. Bunica never cleaned on Tuesdays lest she angered a Martolea. Up at dawn on the first day of Autumn to catch the first leaf that fell to be warm all winter. She swore she saw dragons in the mountains. Perhaps this woman really could still feel her granddaughter, not that it helped him. 

“Yes, Grandmother, I know.” Eleven girls, including her granddaughter, had gone missing over the last seven years. No bodies. No demands. No leads. The girls just vanished, leaving scared, sad, angry family members clamoring at his door, holding pictures of their missing loved ones. He ended the interview quickly and escorted her to the entry of the station. He had stopped promising a resolution after the fourth girl had gone missing.

He didn’t notice them at first as he walked back to his office. Just dirty beige walls of the hallway, then suddenly there was a small woman with light brown eyes, tan skin, and brown curly hair next to a tall, slender, black man with dark brown eyes and black hair cropped close to his head. For some reason when he looked at them, his mind supplied - _other_. They were strangers who shouldn’t be here. The woman smiled at him, but he had no patience today for more useless talk. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” He had found that being hostile sometimes got the most accurate result. 

The man glanced at the woman before speaking; so she was his boss. “We are from Criminal Investigations Directorate in Bucharest. I’m Principal Inspector Varză. This is Inspector Morcovi. We’ve been sent here to consult on the case of the missing women.” 

_Right, Inspectors Cabbage and Carrots_. His accent was wrong and his clothes too. “Show me your badges.” They looked correct, but the sense of wrongness wouldn’t leave him. He was about to tell them to stop selling donuts and get out of the station when he saw a flash of light. His thoughts jumbled, and he felt like a cat staring at a new gate.

“Police Principal-Agent Georgescu, we should go to your office to discuss this further.”

He nodded, his head was packed cotton. “Yes-yes, please come to my office.” Two people filled the room; with three, it was overflowing. The woman sat in the unsteady wooden visitor’s chair. The dark man leaned against the wall but faced the door, alert and coiled like a spring. He took out a small knife and began to clean underneath his fingernails. Behind his desk, Milos felt his thoughts loosen. Fear set in, this wouldn’t be a friendly chat. 

He decided to brazen it out. He could call for help if he needed it. “Why don’t you tell me who you really are. Your Romanian is good, but you aren’t native. Interpol? Private detectives?” 

He thought he heard man mutter, "My way was faster." There was a bright, red light; he fell and then knew nothing.

* * *

The policeman crumpled to the floor with a loud thump. Blaise turned to Hermione. “Subtle. Perhaps we could get a dragon in here, and you could cast a few _bombardas_? Do you want to rouse the whole station? Quick and quiet, in and out, like me last night.” He winked.

Hermione rolled her eyes, “Well, I’m sorry Princess Blaisey, but in between training with you, researching for you, and packing your entire bloody wardrobe, I didn’t have time to tweak the Romania translation charm for the Braşovi dialect. Now get off your arse and help me move him into his chair. I need to pull his password so I can log onto the network to cross-reference my list of disappearances with theirs.” 

“I think you're just making up words to confuse me, ‘Nessa.” He rounded the desk, grasping the policeman under his arms and hefting him back into his chair.

“No, Blaise, if I wanted to confuse you, I would just ask you to cast a disillusionment charm.” She moved behind the man now slumped in the chair and began to trace an angle through the air - _Kenaz,_ for vision - and linked it with two triangles tip to tip - _Dagaz,_ for clarity. Legilimency was good if you wanted a full memory, but it took time and worked best with a pensieve, neither of which they had. Hermione had created a charm that when keyed to the runes would deliver a more precise mind read, usually a specific fact, quickly. The symbols flared faintly then began to crackle and burn as Hermione traced it seven times, the glow grew stronger with each pass.

“One time! I forgot my feet once. Are you ever going to let me forget it?”

She patted his chest and smiled at him, “Never.”

“You've headed the right way for a smacked bottom, mia Leonessa. Remember, you asked me to come. _Anything_ , you said. ‘I’ll give you anything for your help, Blaise.’ Well right now I’m thinking you bent over this desk would just about cover it.” 

Her smirk made his cock twitch. “You want to play Naughty Schoolgirl, now? But Professor Zabini, I’ve already done everything you asked. I certainly don’t deserve a _\- gasp -_ spanking.” Hermione batted her lashes as the runes settled on the policeman’s head then she pushed enough power into them to make papers on the messy desk flutter to the floor. 

“I could've asked him. You know how persuasive I can be.” Blaise grinned, his persuasion was always pointy and mostly bloody. “I don’t always kill them.”

Hermione snorted. He was fascinated by pointy things. It probably explained his attraction to her; she was all sharp edges and angles. 

“Blaise, what happened in Tangiers with the spice merchant?”

“That was different. He tried to grab you.” Blaise’s fist clenched. _Tried_ was the correct word; no one was going to take her away from him.

“Yes, and for that, you gutted him. His intestines were hanging from the light fixtures when you were done. And did it help us find Dolohov? Did we get any actionable intelligence? No, we were lucky that potioneer in Italy owed you favor, or we would never have gotten this far. ”

“Speaking of action, the desk seems old but sound.” He knocked a pen to the floor. “Oops, Miss Granger, be a love and pick up the pen I dropped.” 

“Blaise, I’m trying to concentrate.” Her eyes were closed as she guided the charm. 

He threw himself in the visitor’s chair, which protested with an ominous creak. “You are the enemy of fun. You know that, right?” 

Her eyes snapped open, but she pushed the policeman out of the way and started doing something with the box on the desk. Blaise thought it might be called a 'calmputer' or a 'keyward.' She was making a lot of noise as she scowled at the pictures the box showed her. Bored, Blaise started sending small severing charms at the threads of her knickers. Magic was about intent, and he wanted to keep her gorgeous green dress intact, but her knickers were a lost cause. He could have just vanished them, but where was the sport in that? 

"Blaise, whatever you are doing, stop it. You’re distracting me. The translation charm has a lag, and reading Romanian is giving me a headache.” She looked around the large box on the desk, “Besides I’m not wearing any knickers, so it just tickles. A-ha got it.” Paper started shooting out of another box on a shelf. “We can be on our way once it’s done printing.”

“And our way is where, exactly?”

“From the looks of the reports, most of the girls seemed to either live or work near the Council Square. It was the same for the magicals who disappeared, too. All the interviews are centered around the area. Let's find a cafe and set up shop.”

“That's the first sensible thing you've said all day. Now, before we go - about my pen, Miss Granger, really, it's my favorite.” He dodged her stinging jinx. “You're _so_ getting a spanking tonight.” She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Draco was an idiot, a tosser, and a blessed gift from Merlin for breaking up with her. 

* * *

After the War, they had all floundered; Draco had lost everything to reparations and was making ends meet brewing potions and living with Theo. Before the Final Battle and his incarceration, Theo’s father had sheltered the Nott fortune abroad. After the War, Theo’s sole ambition was drinking his way to the bottom of it. Blaise just drifted.

It continued that way for about five years, but things change. It started when Theo met George Weasely, and he finally realized what they all had known for years: he wanted a wand, not a cauldron. It explained why Theo was shit at potions. Then against all the odds, Draco had landed the 'Brightest Witch of Her Age.' Blaise didn’t envy his friends their happiness. His relationships were intense but brief. Too soon witches and even the few wizards he had been with became boring and predictable. Once they found out about the Zabini family business, that was that. 

He was drunk the first time he fucked Hermione. They were ‘round Theo’s for a friendly Friday night. Then Draco stalked past him with robe billowing a manner that was positively _Snapelike_. Granger trotted behind, tears streaming from her eyes. At the door, he rounded on her and pulled his arm away from where she was plucking at his sleeve. He was as melodramatic as Lucius, "So I get to watch you die? No, I just can’t. It's not fair.” And with a crack, he was gone. 

Blaise had walked, or more likely stumbled over to hand her a bottle of firewhiskey. He had never seen anyone drink a full bottle of Ogden’s Finest so quickly. Even Daphne, who had iron control over her gag reflex, couldn’t compete. Then the night sped up. He remembered spicy food - a curry, maybe? Then her flat, playing ‘two truths and a lie.' He was an excellent liar. He was pretty sure he won because her naked body pressed against his was a prize. As she scraped her nails down his chest, he realized nothing had felt this good in a long time. That was surpassed when she took his cock deep in her throat and hummed. Both were blown out of the running when he fucked her into the mattress as she screamed his name as the soft, wet heat of her fluttered to completion. 

The next morning he woke feeling like the arse end of an erumpent. She handed him a vial he hoped was either quick-acting poison or hangover potion. His brain kicked in gear as potion, not poison, thankfully, hit his system. She was sitting up in bed with the sheet tucked around her front but her bare back visible. Sun on her face made her bronze skin glow and the gold, and brown in her curls shine. But her face was somber and drawn. “Blaise, is it true you’re a hit wizard?”

In the Wizarding World families tended to specialize. The Notts were known for banking. Malfoys were synonymous with politics. Rowles with fighting. Mulcibers with cauldrons. Flints with stone. Goyles with hippogriffs. Blacks with inbreeding. The Zabinis were descended from the survivors of the Nizari assassins that had escaped the Alamut before the Mongols razed it in the thirteenth century. Fleeing to Italy, the Nizaris became the ‘Zaris then the Zabis and eventually Zabinis, which is why Blaise had more knives than socks. 

He rolled over on his side to face her, “Yes, I’ve killed.”

She ran a long, delicate finger down one of the gashes on his chest she'd made with her nails the night before, eliciting a sharp inhale from him. “Would you teach me how?” 

“Not if you want to kill Draco.”

Her laugh was bitter. “No, not Draco. Dolohov.” She sat back and pulled down the sheet, pointing to the purple scar that started between her breasts and continued down her torso. “Draco and I went to St. Mungos yesterday because I’ve been feeling ill. We thought - we hoped - we were pregnant. Instead, they told me I would never have children. I'm sick, dying. Dolohov’s curse never healed. It’s a decaying curse. I silenced him when he cast, and Snape's potions stopped the curse’s progress for a time. But now…” She shrugged. “I want him dead Blaise. I know he’s still out there. I can feel it in my bones. I want to find that bloody bastard and kill him. If I can’t do it, I’m hoping you can.”

When Blaise had woken up, he had been hoping he could convince her to go for round two of rebound sex and then be on his merry way. Draco wouldn’t let a witch like her slip through his fingers. But now that he knew what had happened between Draco and Hermione, maybe he didn’t need to slink away. Draco was a bastard for abandoning her. Dolohov was a double bastard for hurting her like that. And he was a triple bastard because he was going to use this to be with her. Besides, revenge hits were the best. He could get _creative_.

Her eyes sparkled like topaz in the morning light, tears glistened imploring him. “Blaise, anything. I’ll give you _anything_ for your help.” 

Blaise trailed a finger down her bare back, she shivered. He rolled towards her, and she laid back down curling towards him. He bent to kiss her scar, a mistake he never made again. Magic clung to the tissue, tasting of sour wine gone to vinegar. “Well, lucky you mia Leonessa, I’m running a special this week. You give me your nights, and I’ll give you my days. I’ll teach whatever you want to learn.” He pulled her close, cuddling the soft bundle of fierce pride and hurt next to him and whispered. “Be it killing or fucking.” He flipped her, so she was on top and started their first lesson.

Draco was a fool for letting her go. Besides, Blaise had never wanted children anyway.

* * *

Antonin looked out the dusty window of his shop. He had a small tabak and magazine shop on the western corner of Council Square. Most of his lei - muggle money - came from cigarette sales. But his galleons were made upstairs where his flat doubled as a profitable mail-order curse-breaking business. Romania and Bulgaria had enough magical folk to support it, and no one asked too many questions. 

Magic permeated Braşov. The Teutonic Knights founded the city on an ancient Dacian site. Antonin loved walking down the narrow medieval streets. The old ways had not been uprooted here. When he had run after the Last Battle, he had apparated all over Europe, trying to cover his tracks. He thought about returning to Russia, but when he had passed through this city, it felt like home. It reminded him of the town he grew up in when life was nothing but chocolate.

Most of the people he met had some power - squibs - as the English called them. Even with charms on his pockets, thieves robbed him. Of course, then he found and killed them later. Babushkas plied their potions and lotions. Surprisingly, one ointment eased the pain in his leg inflicted by the half-breed goblin teacher when he had calcified all the tendons in his legs during Last Battle. Now and again, he met a true witch or wizard, but he was careful around them. But he could take liberties with the Muggles. _And oh, how he had._ A few constables had stopped by over the years asking him questions, but they knew nothing. Or, they knew nothing after he oblivated them. 

Today he closed his shop early, needing to check his stores. He turned over the closed sign, then closed and locked the front door. Pia was waiting tables across the square. She always knew when he was looking. She waved, and he waved back. _Pleasant girl, missing half her teeth, but that wouldn’t matter_. He walked down the block to the small nondescript door in the side of the building. He kicked the trash out of the way, _filthy muggle pigs._ He used his pocket knife to make a slit in his left hand then pressed his whole palm on the door, and it swung inward. He climbed up the dark, narrow staircase and into the light, airy studio. Afternoon sunlight poured in the windows onto his workbench. He had two projects right now, a lacquer box that would steal your breath until you died of asphyxiation, and a cursed monkey paw that would strangle its owner. 

He shuffled across space to the tall, glass-front hutch in the corner. Antonin had never been a brewer; charms, curses, and runes were his expertise. He opened one of the upper doors and pulled the canister down. He released the stasis charm and opened it. He had enough for maybe two more doses. He needed to order another batch, probably from Italy this time. He would have preferred ordering his polyjuice from England, there was a brew-your-own kit now, but it was too controlled. Germany was the same. He didn’t want to set off any alarms that someone was buying a large amount of it in small-town Romania.

More worrying was dwindling bundle of hair tied with the singed red ribbon. He only had a few strands left. He smoothed the wave that had once been a springy curl; he hardly felt her magic anymore. Magic lived in the body; blood, hair, even nail clippings had a bit of a wizard or witch, but the magic dissipated over time. For Antonin, it meant he would lose the witch he loved, and soon. 

He wished he had known more about potions. He would have done things differently from the start. Not long after settling here, he had found a girl. She was simple. He would dose her and modify her memory, not that anyone could tell. She looked perfect, but her speech was garbled. Her death was an accident; he hadn’t wanted to kill her, if only she had tried harder. The next girl hadn’t lasted long. Though that was due to the bad batch of polyjuice, he would never buy from Bulgarian brewers again. He had found a few reliable potioneers, two in France, one in Spain, and one in Italy, who were willing to provide polyjuice outside the ICW controls. 

For a time, the third girl was perfect. One day, she just collapsed in the middle of a session, a hollowed-out husk, wholly depleted. After that, he had started experimenting with girls of varying magical power. _So many girls_ , he lost track if it was either eighteen or nineteen. He really should have kept better records. He found the more magic a girl had the longer she lasted before total collapse. The witch he caught had lasted a year. Then she transformed back during one of their sessions while he was inside her. He was still cleaning the blood up months later. It had gotten everywhere. He kept the hair under a stasis charm now. His Spanish brewer had explained that time mattered. Old hair would still work in polyjuice, but the potion would not last as long. Blood or fresh hair worked best. 

He needed a new supply. Shortening sessions aside, he had to spend so much time fixing her up after the transformation. She hadn’t been in the best shape when he'd collected her hair. She was thin with dark circles under her eyes and so dirty. He wished he had thought to take her hair at the battle in the Department of Mysteries. That, or just apparated her away and left the Dark Lord to his fate. 

He chuckled; she was clever, his kitten. She had silenced him - the Dark Lord’s Hand. Bella might be the Dark Lord’s most loyal, but he was the Dark Lord’s most useful. A curse was just the dark side of a charm. He plucked one of the precious hairs from the bundle. Growing up, a crone had cast the bones for him. ‘Love,’ she'd said, ‘your future is blood and love. First, you will mark her, then forget her, then find her again, many times. Maybe twenty? But beware the twenty-first. It is not a lucky number for you.’ 

He had seen her dueling, the third time he found her. She was a force of nature. He had stopped right there in the middle of the battle to watch her fight, struck still by her skill, grace, and beauty. Then she had dashed off to Koschei knows where. A stray curse almost caught her dead; instead, it hacked off a hank of her hair. He wrenched himself free of the duel with the goblin halfling to retrieve it, earning a never-ending leglock. When he fled Britain after the Battle, he had only his wand, his robes, and her hair. He felt the hair was his most precious possession. With it, he was able to be with her for an hour — his Hermione. 

_Yes, Pia will do nicely._

* * *

“Moira, when you wrinkle your nose like that you make my trousers unbearably tight. Please stop doing it or I will pick you up, push up your dress, and fuck you on this table in front of all these people, effectively blowing our cover. All because your nose scrunches make you look like a naughty little kneazle.”

“You mean like this?” She scrunched her nose like a niffler scenting a knut. “And it’s a cat, not a kneazle, _Blaine_.” They were using aliases. Dolohov probably wouldn't recognize Blaise's name, but Hermione was famous. 

He grabbed her left hand and pressed a kiss to the ring on her finger. “How could I forget, _Mrs. Zabanger.”_

“Worst name ever.”

“You rejected Blamione, quite harshly as I recall.”

“We are trying to blend in, what’s wrong with Smith?”

“No Z’s.” 

“Blais-ne, look.” He tsked her almost mistake and followed her gaze over to an older man. If it was him, the dark, stringy hair Antonin Dolohov had in his Azkaban mugshot was now short-cropped salt and pepper. His unkempt stubble had been shaped into a sharp goatee. The man walked with a hitch in his gait like he had a knee injury. Professor Flitwick had jinxed Dolohov’s legs with an imperturbable straightening charm.

“He came from the tabak and magazine shop, over there. Oh, Godric, he's headed this way, I think it’s him." Her voice dropped to a whisper, "It’s _Dolohov._ ” 

Blaise felt the familiar rush of adrenaline shoot through his system. “Relax, we are covered in glamours and notice-me-nots.” With Hermione’s hair and Blaise’s skin, they had decided to alter their appearances to blend in. It was better than polyjuice as they didn’t know how long they would be here. Long-term polyjuice usage could kill you — the older man seated himself a few tables away. The young waitress, Pia, hurried to his side and they exchanged pleasantries. “He’s much too old for her.”

“Blaine.”

“What? He must be, what, fifty? She’s eighteen if that. What a lech. Mark my words, he is going to make a move on her.” 

They watched him eat a light supper. Before he left, he gently touched his waitress’s hand. She bent towards him and nodded blushing. “Oh, that old dog is getting lucky tonight.” Hermione rolled her eyes. 

The older man left the cafe and limped across the square, pausing to watch some children chasing pigeons. One could almost forget he was the thief of joy and had saddled her with a piece of rot and decay that was slowly killing her. When Pia came out for another table's order, Blaise wandered over to talk to the young waitress. She didn’t notice him slip the copper disk in her pocket. 

Spycraft was limitless when you had magic. She spent hours with her father, a fan of the cloak and dagger genre, watching movies and documentaries. Her favorites were how spies used everyday objects for covert actions. One story that stuck in her head was how the Soviets bugged a carving of a US federal seal. It was hard to detect because it only became active when a radio wave was pointed at it. Hermione had taken a knut and built a homing charm into it. The knut was small and thin enough it could be dropped in a pocket or purse. Using a modified WWN radio set tuned to the charm, they could listen in on a target. Wireless extendable ears. 

Now all they had to do was wait.

* * *

At 9:50 P.M., Antonin heard the knock at the door, his early and, apparently, eager guest had arrived. He went downstairs to let her in. Pia looked around the flat in wonder. She was a country girl, but even from across the room, he could feel her magic. She could have gone to Hogwarts or Beauxbatons, but they were in the catchment for Koldovstoretz. Had she not been contacted? The school had closed for a time because of the upheaval in Russia. The same one that had killed his mother and little brother, chasing him and his father from their motherland. Antonin had never bothered to find out if it had reopened.

“Ah, Kotik, welcome to my home. Would you like some tea?” He dropped the hair in the measure of polyjuice; it fizzed and turned red. He frowned, it was paler than last time. It would be a race against the clock. He brought it to her where she sat on the couch. 

“Your tea is - lumpy?”

“It’s a special health tea. I promise it will make you feel like a new woman.” She took a sip and made a face looking for a napkin to spit it out. Antonin cast an _imperio_. She wouldn’t be wasting any of the potion; he had learned that the hard way. “Drink up, Kotik. I want this to last as long as possible.”

Her hair was already twisting into dark ringlets, and her skin was bubbling and shifting. After a few moments, he was faced with a dirty-faced, haunted, teenaged Hermione Granger. He sighed; this was the price he paid to see his love. Each time she came back to him, she was at her worst. If only the Dark Lord had won. He would have found and kept her. He would have nursed her back to health. His curse would eventually kill her unless he stopped it. Magic could not be uncast. 

He set to work. He was much better at glamours now - the first pancake is always the worst. He resented every moment wasted. The final touch was to transform her dress into one he had seen today at the cafe on a woman a few tables away from him. He had like the drape of the cloth and the color. The pale blue with white embroidery was pretty and feminine. It was exactly the kind of thing his Kotik would wear. 

He sat across from her and cast the _imperius_ again, “Your name is Hermione Granger. I am Antonin Dolohov, your beloved. We have history, terrible history. But you have finally given in to your desires. Every touch will be a thrill. Every word a song. Now tell me, Hermione, do you want this?”

A cloud passed over the girl’s face, as she fought the curse. Good, it was much sweeter when she resisted at first. His legilimency was only fair, but you needed it for a good _imperius_. He pushed his will and images towards her. He felt the resistance of her mind give way under his onslaught. He planted the scenes from the Battle in the Department of Mysteries, the fight in the shabby little cafe, and then finally, the Last Battle, where she had fought like a fury. 

Now he added emotions to color the encounters, fear, of course, bravery undoubtedly, and lust. He knew she had noticed him, probably shamed herself wanting him, forbidden fruit. She was rigid in her beliefs; he liked that. Bending the alder just took time. He planted the last image; after the Battle, she had gone searching for him. She found him living his peaceful, quiet life. She watched him from afar at first, but her need for justice and secret lust drove her to confront him and to fall for him. She bore his mark. _His._

Hermione blinked her eyes like she saw for the first time, “Oh, Antonin. Why have I waited so long?” She launched herself at him. Her lips latched onto his. He ran his tongue along her teeth. He frowned, some of her teeth felt thin like they weren’t really there. He vanished her clothing with a flick and ran his hands down her sides. He felt her ribs poking out. He always forgot them. Next time he must remember to pad her ribs, she was all bones.

He picked her up, locking her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, and carried her toward the bed behind the screen. He kissed the valley between her breasts and licked the scar and frowned. There was hardly any taste, the magic pale and stale. The tingle the first time he touched her scars had been the most delightful surprise, but it had faded as the magic in her hair waned. 

He sighed; he really must find a new source. 

* * *

Across town, Hermione downed her third firewhiskey as she listened to the squeaks of bedsprings and the moans of two people locked in the throes of passion. “Turn it off. I can’t listen anymore.”

“What, you don’t want to listen to Dolohov do the dirty?”

“Blaise, he turned that woman into a living sex doll that looks like me and used an Unforgivable to do it _._ It’s sick, and it’s rape.”

“We knew he wasn’t a nice man.” Blaise made to turn off the old-fashioned radio set that Hermione had modified to pick up the knut’s signal. “Wait, something’s happening.”

“NO, NO, NO. NOT YET! WHY MUST YOU ALWAYS LEAVE ME?” There was a slap then smothered breathing. “Why Hermione why? Don't go.” There was labored breathing like he was struggling against something followed by a gurgle. Then silence. 

Blaise turned the set-off and walked over to the table to pour himself a drink. “That wasn’t what I expected.”

“Oh, you thought the psychopath who was having sex with a polyjuiced or glamoured girl that _looks like me_ wasn't going to get killed? Godric, Blaise, how many women do you think he’s killed to satisfy this sick fantasy? Between the police files and my research, I think it 's nineteen.”

“‘Nessa, I’m less concerned with the girls he has killed, than, with the girl he wants. You’re going nowhere near that man.”

Hermione stalked towards him and jabbed a finger in his chest. “Oh, yes, I am. Those girls deserve justice, and so do I. You promised, Blaise, that was our deal. Anything you wanted for your help killing him. I quit my job as an Unspeakable to tote around your ridiculous matched luggage on every job for the last year. You would have left a trail of knives and socks all over Europe if it wasn't for me. I followed your outrageous training regimen. I’ve helped you plot, track, and murder. It's my kill. Mine.”

Blaise lost what little heart he had to his lioness long ago. She was perfect: plotting, cunning, vindictive. She would make a ‘murder board' for every job, forever tearing apart her knitting to use the yarn to draw connections between the pins. His mother called her _Gattina,_ or little kitten because she was always playing with yarn. Every time Contessa Zabini visited, she brought a skein for her.

“I know, ‘Nessa.” Blaise’s hand cupped her finger and folded it back into her palm. He brought her hand to mouth and brushed a kiss over each knuckle. “But you are mine, and I take care of my things.” He had done it all for her. He had devised her training regimen to counter her weight loss from the curse. The stress of her job and the Foundation was bad enough, but watching Draco move on with Astoria had accelerated the curse. He begged her to quit her job. In the end, he kidnapped her and brought her to his villa, kicking and screaming, only then had her health improved. 

“I'm not a thing, Blaise.”

She was vibrating with rage. He had two options. He could continue to argue and let her wear him down. Eventually, she would resort to sex to win the argument. Or he could lie to her and have sex now. He pulled her in for a kiss. “Just know, _IF_ I let you do this, and you get killed, I will murder you.” Her lips were so soft, plump, and biteable.

“Don’t worry, if you let me die without getting rid of Dolohov, your mother promised to poison you for me. Slowly.”

“Surrounded by evil witches, I am. I should have never let the two of you meet.” Where Narcissa had hated Hermione and undermined her at every turn, Blaise’s pureblood, dark witch mother loved her from the moment they met. He had gone out and come back to find the two in the villa’s make-shift potions lab, arguing over the best method to decant a gaseous poison. If they wanted him dead, he probably deserved it. Besides, they were cunning enough; he would never see it coming. 

“I can’t help it if she likes me better.” Her face fell, and a frown darkened it further. “All those girls, Blaise. He’s a monster.” 

“Lucky for you I’m good at killing, monsters or otherwise.” He wrapped an arm around her thighs and draped her over his shoulder. She shrieked. He walked over to the bed and threw her down with a bounce. “Enough work for tonight. The _anything_ I want from you is your total attention and devotion, mia Leonessa.” 

His talented tongue was busier than usual that evening and into the morning, chasing monsters away was hard work, as was wringing pleasure from every nerve of her body. His goal was an eargasm, an orgasm that went all the way to her ears. He was rubbish with feelings, preferring to show her instead. He wanted to tell her he would take care of her, that no one would ever hurt her again. Until now, he'd only worried about Draco. Dolohov was a ghost. He thought they would never find him. But Draco could realize tomorrow what an idiot he had been and come prancing back in her life like the ponce he was. Once he had said, he wouldn’t kill Draco for her. It might have been true then, but now he would kill anyone that had hurt her, Draco, Dolohov even bloody Harry Potter if she asked for it. His ‘I love you’ was rather bloody. 

* * *

The next day Pia’s disappearance was front-page news. The day after it fell to second-page news. As the days passed, it slipped further back in the pages. After two weeks, the flyers with her picture were the only reminder of her. 

Hermione and Blaise were having their morning coffee, trying to figure a way past Antonin’s formidable wards, when an owl swooped low. It was a large owl, capable of long-distance delivery. Blaise unfastened the scroll from the bird’s leg. He read quickly and pulled out a pen, scribbling a hasty reply.

“May I trouble you for a few strands of your riotous curls? Theo was contacted by one of ‘his Father’s old associates’ looking to retrieve a certain rare ingredient.” At her blank look, he gestured to his left arm. “ He’s scared out of his wits about why Dirty D wants your hair.” Dirty D was now their code name for Dolohov.

Theo had dodged any commitment to the Death Eaters. His rare ingredient procurement business hadn't taken off until he had started offering partially completed potions, Draco’s idea, but Theo’s distribution. Snape was a brilliant potioneer but a shit teacher. He was responsible for a generation of Hogwarts graduates who avoided brewing like dragon pox and for Theo and Draco’s success.

Hermione ran her fingers through her mane and came out with more than a few strands of hair. “Well, then. It looks like our man will be hunting for a new catch. Perhaps we should lay a trap?”

“Shall I dig a pit?” Blaise stole the last bit of pastry from her plate. “Just so you know, the sharpened sticks at the bottom are not optional.” 

* * *

Antonin stared at the small clump of hair. It had been on Hermione’s head not 24 hours ago. He picked it up and smelled it: Honey, coffee, and berry. _Oh, Theo really was a good boy_. He would have to send him the Saxon scroll on potions he had translated; he had more use for it than Antonin, and this - _this_ \- deserved a reward. 

He knew exactly who he would use it on as well. He had noticed the young couple in the cafe a few days ago, Blaine and Moira Zabanger. They were traveling through Romania writing a tourist guide. Moira was a delicious little treat. If he wasn’t true to his Hermione, then he might have allowed himself to be swayed by her petite frame and severe demeanor. But he had left a piece of himself in another. _He knew this was only a spell, but the damage was done; he had fallen in love._ He would invite her over for tea, without the husband, of course. He was not a pervert. 

* * *

It was a windy day. Each gust seemed to spawn a small dust storm. 

“OW-ow-ow!”

“Blaine, stop being such a baby. Here use my napkin to wipe your eye.”

“No, Moira, let me just go to the toilet and wash it out.” Blaise wobbled when he stood and bumped into the tables and chairs as he went. 

Hermione’s skin crawled as Antonin oiled his way to their table. “Ah, Kotik, there you are.” She hated that he used Contessa’s nickname for her, even if it was a different language. “I was wondering if you could take a break from your research to have tea with me today. Just you and me.”

Hermione flicked her eyes to where Blaise had disappeared, biting her lip. “I don’t know. Blaine doesn’t like me to go places by myself.”

“You won’t be by yourself. You’ll be with me. No place could be safer. It’s just tea, Kotik. You’ll feel like a new woman afterward. I promise” 

This was her chance to do it without Blaise. Hermione smiled. “All right.” 

Antonin could hardly contain himself. He knew his smile showed all his teeth.”Yes, perfect. At three o’clock then?”

Hermione shuddered on the inside. He smiled like a crocodile - all teeth. He always looked like he was contemplating murder. “That sounds delightful. I hope there are biscuits.”

He strode off, whistling a jaunty little tune. Blaise returned to the table with red but clear eyes. “What’s got Dirty D so happy?”

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe he kicked a puppy on the way over. Or had a fly in his soup and tore the wings off.” 

Blaise cocked his head to one side watching her, then he smiled. “Yeah, that must be it. So what’s the plan for the afternoon?”

* * *

Antonin forgave himself for the gasp when he opened the door. Moira stood there; she was so beautiful. He wondered if she knew she had magic. It was faint but there. He ushered her in and let her go up the stairs first. She truly was a specimen. If the new hair didn’t work, he would keep her just as she was, forever. He would have to get rid of the husband, but what else was an _avada kedavra_ for? 

In his musings, he had fallen behind. Then he saw it, the stairwell was dark, but it didn't hide how the skin below and above her ankles were different shades. It was as if she was wearing socks or had cast a sloppy glamour that didn’t go all the way to her feet. Antonin tsked mentally. She was a witch but was hiding it. _Oh, this would be fun._

When Antonin returned with the tea tray, he found her curled on the couch, shoes off and her feet tucked up, her eyes darting around the room. _She had noticed her error, then._ She gulped down his ‘health tea’ with no questions. The cup dropped from her hand and rolled on the carpet once the transformation began.

Her hair and skin darkened. To call her hair brown was a disservice to language, it was so many shades - umber, amber, copper, brass, chestnut, acorn, gold, bronze. Her straight hair bounced into waves then twisted into coils. Her skin warmed to a tawny beige. Her eyes were like sard flecked with gold. This was Hermione Granger in the _Prophet_ clippings he used to build his glamours. The difference was she was here and his, he didn’t have to cut out some lesser wizard out of the picture. 

He clapped his hands, “You are perfect. I do not need to change anything. Look how well you have recovered from the War, my love.” His _imperio_ hit her hard, her mouth gaping and her eyes shining dully. “You are Hermione Granger, and I am Antonin Dolohov -"

Dolohov pushed into her mind. Usually, he avoided looking into a girl's past. He didn’t care. But without the need for glamours, he could spend a bit of time in her mind. She intrigued him. Entering her mind was like pulling back a curtain. The first thing he saw was a red light, followed by a thump. He looked down, and Hermione was looking up at him, stupefied. _That is odd._

He pushed the curtain aside to find another memory. Hermione sat in a chair near a radio, her mouth a stubborn line. A voice said, ‘ _Nessa, I’m less concerned with the girls he has killed than I am with the girl he wants. You are going nowhere near that man.'_

He tore the next curtain apart. _What was going on?_ _Who was talking?_ In this memory, Hermione was bent over a desk typing at a computer. ' _Besides, I’m not wearing any knickers, so whatever you are doing is just tickling.'_

He was drowning memories and images. Then he heard, ' _One time! I forgot my feet once. Are you ever going to let me forget it?'_

Antonin’s head spun as he pulled out of her mind. This was why viewing memories without a penseive was dangerous; it was too much. He looked at the witch sitting on his lap, her eyes still dull from the _imperius_. The images of Hermione he saw made no sense. The point of view was wrong. It was like he was looking at Hermione. She shouldn't have memories of herself. Besides, these memories weren’t the ones he planted. Was it the new hair? Had the polyjuice potion gone bad? How did Moira know her? Perhaps mixing legilimency with the _imperius_ curse was to blame. 

“ _BOMBARDA MAXIMA.”_ The door into his flat exploded in a cloud of splinters. Hermione Granger strode through the door wand drawn, hair crackling and eyes blazing. “Where is _that_ wizard.” 

Antonin knew his face must be a mask of surprise. _Two Hermione’s?_ _But then who was sitting on his lap?_

“Expelliarmus.” His wand flew into her hand. “ _Petrificus Totalus._ Just in case, _incarcerous._ Now, I assume that you have put Blaise, well I guess Blaismione, under your _imperius_ curse. I don’t have much faith in him fighting it off. Either you remove it now, or I will kill you and your death ends the curse. I don’t care either way, really, but I do want his mind unaddled and I would like to know where you are hiding the bodies. I’m going to remove the _Petrificus Totalus_ so we can talk. No funny business.”

The blue sparks of his wordlessly cast _silencio_ bounced off her shield. 

“Now, see that was the definition of funny business. Hard way it is then, _imperius._ Remove the curse from Blaise and tell me where the girls’ bodies are hidden.” Antonin resisted. The pressure increased like she was trying to drive a wedge into his mind. “Do it.” 

He needed to distract her, so he used the only thing he had. He looked at the jagged the scar on the torso of the Hermione in his lap. “The day I gave you this scar, I gave you a piece of my magic. When you silenced it and stopped it with potions, you defied not just me but Magic. A spell once cast must do its duty.” Hermione’s eyes flashed. He felt a slight let-up in the pressure. “It was my gift to you, Kotik, to mark you.” 

Her mouth twisted into a cruel smile, “ _Accio blade_.” Antonin’s ritual knife flew into her hand from his workbench. She ripped open her shirt and cut along her scar. She strode over and knocked Blaismione to the floor then grabbed Antonin by his hair and pressed his face into the tissue and gore. “If this your gift, then you can have it back, you bastard. _Relinquo.”_

When you peel back the runes, the wand movements, even the words, magic is about intent. Hermione wanted the curse gone with every fiber of her being. When Antonin had cast the curse, he wanted it to be. The opposing forces warred in Hermione's body, growing more unstable each year. But Magic loved Hermione; she was special. The granddaughter of a fire witch that fled Russia during the 1930s and a grandfather who was a water mage from Africa by way of Jamaica; fire, and water had made her their daughter. She had what it would take to make the curse break. Hermione reached into her soul, her magical core, and dug out the curse. She pulled it from her body and her blood, and then she shoved his curse down Dolohov’s throat. 

The decay, no longer held at bay within Hermione’s body, ate Antonin from the inside out. His body collapsed in on itself like a diseased fruit, purpling then blackening. He dissolved into a puddle of visceral maroon goo that ate through the couch and then the floor. 

Blaismione shook her head. Hermione conjured a soft robe and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You are a liar and a cheat. I am furious at you, Blaise. This was my revenge. Mine.”

Blaismione shook her head, “Consider this my best shot at the perfect gift. Normal witches want galleons or jewels. What do you want? The blood of your fucking enemies.”

“You wouldn’t want me if I wanted galleons and jewels. Let's go through his flat and see if we can find where he hid the girls. Then we can go home and take the longest shower ever.”

“Of course, ‘Nessa. I'll put the kettle on. It's going to be a long night.”

* * *

Police Principal-Agent Georgescu walked through the wreckage of the tabak and magazine seller's shop. The building had caught fire early in the morning and burned intensely, destroying everything. He caught a shiver whenever he came here. His thoughts were always a jumble after visiting with the owner. He kicked the burnt remains of a door with his toe. He thought he saw something white; he bent to look at it only to realize this was a bone. A human bone.

When all was tagged and bagged, there were nineteen missing young women, the eleven they knew about and eight new Ionna Popescus' to identify. He had a gnawing feeling that he had missed something important, but couldn't put his finger on it. 

The next day that the _Bună ziua Braşov_ had a full-page article on how he'd cracked the case. It was time to think bigger; perhaps he should apply for that job in Bucharest. 

* * *

Blaise looked up from the paper, “So what now? You killed the bad guy. The healer said you are curse clean and you’ve forgiven me for my heroic act of misplaced bravery.”

Sitting at the opposite end of the couch, Hermione snorted. She dropped her foot into his lap so he could rub it; his foot rubs were divine. “You stupefied me, took polyjuice to pretend to be me, and then you almost got yourself raped by my psycho stalker. Name one heroic part?”

“I wore that green dress and Dolohov shredded it. It was my favorite. Anything for the, what do you always say, Greater Good?” He frowned, not sure if he should tell her what was bothering him. “I don’t understand why you are going back to England, Hermione. Draco’s disappeared. So what?” Blaise could feel his heart pounding. He had always assumed. Draco would appear and sweep her away. Not disappear and pull her back. 

She smirked. “And Astoria too - or so I gather.” 

Blaise dug his thumb into the bridge of her foot. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about their strange disappearances, would you? What was the reason you’re going back, again?”

“Unfinished business.”

He was going to lose her. He could feel it in his bones. “You don’t have to go. I can try to be better. I promise, the next bad guy, you can kill. I won’t interfere. And remember you told me, ‘Anything I want.’ Well, what if I want you to stay with me?”

“Blaise.” He watched the emotions war on her face. Perhaps she wouldn’t leave; his nightmare was that he woke to find her, her things, and her beautiful madness gone without even a goodbye. Was she actually considering staying? 

“What if I sweeten the deal? Stay, and we can go on holiday. Someplace sunny?” She placed her other foot in his lap for him to rub.

“Oh, and where would we be going?”

Blaise had killed Alecto Carrow and Muliciber. He and Hermione had taken down Rookwood and now Dolohov. Before they had burned his home to the ground, they had gone through his papers. Dolohov had some interesting correspondence. Blaise had sent a few letters off to Pansy, one of the few people alive who could verify Rodolphus Lestrange’s handwriting. “I heard about a very deadly tiger in Sumatra. One might even call it _Strange_. Fancy a hunt, Mia Leonessa?”

She raised a brow. “Blaise, I need to get you some zoology books. Males lions don’t hunt. They let the females do it. All the males do is lay in the sun and fuck.”

He surged up from his seat opposite her, hovered over her with his arms caging her in, and a feral smile splitting his face. “Well then, ‘Nessa, fancy a fuck in the sun?”

**Author's Note:**

> **Glossary:**
> 
> Joimarita - the Romanian version of a god of death who oversees the fires of Holy Thursday, lit to honor ancestors, but gradually became a vigilante character, fighting against laziness.  
> Bunica - Romanian word for grandmother.  
> Hoanghină - Romanian word for hag.  
> Martolea - is a demonic entity in Romanian mythology who lives up in the mountains and descends on Tuesday nights to lure with his singing and punish the women caught working.  
> Mia Leonessa - Italian for my lioness.  
> Babushka - Russian for grandmother.  
> Gattina - Italian word for kitten.  
> Kotik - Russian word for kitten.  
> Ionna Popescu - Romanian equivalent for Jane Doe. 
> 
> Hurray for Romania! If you are looking for something magical and otherworldly, just pop open a page of their folktales and be amazed.


End file.
